Crows
by Twilight Hours
Summary: Sam's fading and there's no one there to stop him.


73. Fading  
>Can take place anywhere in the series~<p>

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><p>—<em>and wouldn't that be the first time. <em>

Ghosts and ghouls and apparitions. But he thinks it was something else.

The air is crisp, cold and fresh like inside a bag of salad. The chill bites at his skin in a subdued fashion— his hairs stand atop long-risen goosebumps and they dance minutely as small waves of wind wash across his body. He can hear the water crashing on the shore, foamy froth slapping the sand. They're at the beaches of Texas, or California, working a case. A selkie come to pick off early morning runners. And Dad's not here yet so they can goof off, they can dig their toes into the moist grains and bury themselves in nostalgia.

That was ten years ago.

No waves, no ocean— but a tsunami of leaves, bloodied or rusted or both. Leaves that crunch and crumble but also soak softly into the puddles all over the— asphalt. Oil mixes with water mixes with blood— of the leaves. He's sure of it. It smells like oil, like the corroding existence of mankind and machines traveling here to where and leaving greasy footprints in their wake.

And it smells like water too. Like rain. A tsunami might've fell, a whole lake right on top of the road and the blurry forests around it— it smells like rain. Mixed with oil and leaves. Wet bark and trees. And mud and tiny green sprouts bursting exuberantly out of the ground with dew clinging to them as if those buds had just missed their true love flying off and are now shedding tears of regret and overexertion because of it. And tiny bugs whose niches are devastated because the sky cried for too long. The trees are shivering because everything is being so sensitive and it's making them tremble and lose their rusty leaves from the stress.

And the dirges of big black birds join in on the funeral. They could be angels.

And the sky is gray, and there may or may not be clouds. The sky might have just turned gray from the overwhelming sadness. And there may or may not be a sun. It's definitely not the beach in Texas. It's just a long stretch of road, a forest, and mourning. Over... something.

He thinks, now, he thinks he can hear the passive thunder of an engine. But it never gets near him and it doesn't matter anyway.

The oily watery ground is also sharp with glass and tiny pebbles, ruthless and only showing ounces of mercy at a time, like they were mixing cooking with torture. He's not sure whether he's supposed to be the victim or the ingredient.

The birds soon take over his thoughts, because they're massive and made of smoke, made of demons, and they're coming closer and closer with possessed eyes that contain pollutant and malice and harmful intent and famine. The air still nips, a little less playfully. He's on the road and the possessed angels are coming closer, their feet and talons turning crimson and their plumage reflecting the bloody leaves.

But it's not the leaves anymore, it's not just the scarlet color of the papery hair of the trees that contain pseudo veins. Though it does seem like it. Blood running out of the veins of leaves. It's not.

There's more than just vermillion on the _leaves_— it's on the crows, it's on the glass and pebbles, it's in the puddles of oil and water and it's staining the asphalt and virgin sprouts and his vision. (On the massive looming presence on his mind, probably still stalking through the woods, probably sniffing the ground with its giant maw and probably making its way back to the half-finished prey it had left on the side of the road—) Everything is tinted, blushing and gray. The world, at least where he is, has a fever. And a migraine.

It's hard to tell, because he's seeing everything flipped on its side. He's lying half on the road and he wonders if maybe something is wrong. He feels like he's lost something (_someone_) and he feels like he's losing something right now. Still losing it. There's a raspy sound, like a large dying cat is hovering just above his face.

Sam Winchester is bleeding out.

He's lying mostly on his back, his head turned to rest on its side. One arm is aligned with his back, positioned straight along his body, the shoulder slightly hunched up against his neck— it would be uncomfortable if it hadn't fallen asleep. If it were more numb, it would be dislocated.

His other arm is half-crushed under his weight, wrapped around his midsection. His sleeve, bunched up to the crook of his elbow, is soaked with blood, a wet sopping mess. Most of the jacket and shirt that hadn't been shredded is just as wet and red and gory, sponging up the first leakage and then releasing what it couldn't handle to the road and dirt.

A big bloody pool spreads out beneath him and beyond like a gaping hole. It's slow, but it's still swelling outwards. It's rather artistic.

His legs are mostly straight. One's bent inwards a little, not broken, however much it looks so. It's also fallen asleep. The remaining straight one is jittery and quivering, ticklish and semi-painful with each jolt. The thick denim of his jeans are useless against the blood and wind and it might have rips in it also, he can't tell.

He only knows about the wound stretching across his frame, side to side.

Locks of hair feather his face every now and then, making his nose itch. A few strands have been in his right eye since before he can remember, and they no longer bother him. They're not a nuisance. His hair must be a mess, falling every which way across his vision and dusting the pavement, tips died dirty ruby.

His mouth is opened wide, a parody, lips cracked like drought-infested lands and bleeding themselves. He tries to close his mouth and fails.

The raspy, rattling, dying cat sound— it's coming from his mouth. Isn't it.

He feels dizzy, nauseous, vertigo hurricanes sweeping over him as gales of emotion. He feels empty, or reaching empty. He feels drained, and tired. Really really tired.

He's roadkill. Some hit-and-run lying abandoned on the side of the street to be collected when some cheap clean up crew comes to sweep up the area days later. Yes, he's been abandoned. _Left. _That is what encompasses him now— the feeling of being left. Not necessarily forgotten, just dumped.

His cut is going to get infected. It's going to be an angry blushing hole that soon turns discolored around the edges and pus is going to be everywhere and it'll look like a bruise and who knows what else. Like some dead possum.

Why isn't someone here? He thinks someone is usually here by now, not _not _here even after Sam's been splayed across some deserted black path for maybe hours and maybe more than a day. Someone should be... _here. _

Crows are almost at his side now, looking like giants stomping unconcerned around a tiny wasteland with this lost and hurt boy in their way. They're waltzing across the red sea to Sam and their feathers, shiny and unruffled, remind him of someone. Maybe not someone that should be here, but someone.

They're here. The ange— the crows. Sam's been restless to see them walking around him as divine monsters and to see them this close, it's unnerving. More than that. He can feel his heart rate speeding up, some sort of innocent convict pounding against the bars of his (rib)cage, and his head feels worse than it had before. His inconvenient bangs block out a third of what he sees and he can't move his head very well but what he witnesses urges him to vomit. He holds it back only barely.

The ebony creatures get too close. _Too close. _Their razor beaks start to yank on the chocolate tendrils attached to his scalp, pulling none too gently and taking more than a few out. They pick at his clothes and his skin with curiosity and morbid interest. One bends down to take a stab at his eye, but he closes it in time and winces in pain at the damaged eyelid. It's harder to open the second time and he blows out to make the crow scamper away.

But more are coming, and they're soon paying attention to what's being half covered by his arm. They nudge at the cramped appendage and Sam swears he hears them sniffing at the rancid flesh.

And eventually, they start picking at that too.

Sam doesn't feel it at first. It's a small pressure, tiny invisible forces plucking softly at the frayed edges of his torn skin. A lot of his blood is on the outside of him now, so everything's a little numb. However, slowly but surely the feeling arrives, and though he can't see it, he envisions the crows a few inches down eating away at his chest.

And it _hurts. _

Bile rises to the back of his throat, momentarily choking him as small clucking sounds are emitted from the black beasts. They just tease at first, but then they start _taking. _They rip at the rim of the wound and then they get brave and start snapping at the uncovered tissue and the bits of bone sticking out and Sam can't move, he's paralyzed in disgust and fatigue and fear.

A whimper forces its way pitifully out of his battered throat. The birds hesitate for a millisecond but keep going. A few start fighting over hanging bits of gore mostly unattached from the rest of him.

Then one of them starts _digging, _and Sam can't take it anymore. He scrunches his eyes just and his body gets tense and coiled all over and he _screams. _

The demons startle, hopping away bewildered. Their feathers bunch up and dance as their feet do some animal tango, beaks open in shock. They look five times bigger than they had before.

Sam clutches his chest tighter and keeps screaming, scaring the crows away as far as he can and then he screams some more and sobs and wheezes. He hurts, his sides ache and throb and there's still something moving in the even larger wound covering most of his upper torso. He wants to cry but he's already crying, covered in frustration and not quite self pity and forlornness. He wants to give up but there's nothing he can do, and he's completely helpless.

He lays there for eternities, screaming and sobbing away the crows every now and then and throwing up once or twice, adding a filthy stench mixed with the copper odor to rub and wash against his face. Blood and puke pushes slightly into his eye and nose and mouth and he hasn't felt more disgusting in his life. He hasn't felt any more pathetic than he does now.

Eventually the rude and greedy angels fly away, eliciting relief and irrational loneliness from the dying figure left on the road.

Sam's never sure what time it is, but it's getting darker and colder. Fog settles in like it was never gone and he feels like a little kid again, afraid of everything and wanting to close his eyes and sleep away all the fear.

He doesn't sleep. He can't.

He waits through the night, waiting for something he's becoming more and more convinced that will never come. He's also waiting for the return of whatever had taken him before and shredded any chance of survival he might have had once— just up and took it away from him along with a couple layers of his flesh. Maybe it had started with crows. But no, it wasn't anything earthly like that, no matter how unearthly the giant black birds are.

Surprisingly, time passes fast, like the thumping of his heart. It's not any warmer, though Sam's sure his limbs have frozen over by now, and maybe that means his wound isn't bleeding anymore. But it's getting lighter out, turning from black to smoky gray before his squinting eye. The day resumes as it had before— wind and mourning and puddles of water and oil and blood.

The only difference in scenery is the godsend of a lack of crows.

There's also that thunder of an engine, but Sam's not fooled. He's been abandoned and no one is coming for him.

Just when he starts to consider giving up, though— right when his eye closes, the other one long-shut from all the contamination— the thunder gets really loud. It's like a deep moaning in the back of the throat of a boulder, if boulders had throats. He's so exhausted, and doesn't want to open his eye, but he pries the bruised lid up anyway, and sees another crow flying towards him.

Fear starts to pump through his veins again, and he feels another shout just under his tongue. It rolls closer and closer, cawing monstrously. Sam feels pathetically fearful, and he wishes with all his might to move, one last time. But he can't.

The giant angel stops in front of him and it's bigger than all the others had been. Sam can't even look up far enough to see its head. The growling stops and a harsh clap is heard like a deep gunshot.

He hopes the bird's been shot.

Then there's shuffling, dry from kicked up rocks and wet from puddles sloshed through. Slow motion blankets him momentarily and he sees from under the crow, two boots, stalking around and up to him.

And he's being attacked again, and he tries to scream but all that comes out is some squeaking croak that is a mix between a dying cat and a frightened dog. He can't really see anymore, gobs of tears rolling around in his remaining working eye, the lid mostly swollen. After some time of disorientation, he realizes he's not being taken away piece by piece.

Someone's touching him, patting him down. He's confused.

The wind howls, but his hair is too plastered to the road and his face to move much. But there's something else howling, speaking. He tries to focus on it but all he gets out of the warbles are his name _Sam Sam Sam Sammy. _The hands that touch his cheeks and mouth are wet and sticky and now Sam's worried.

"Are you okay," he tries to get out. He's not sure if it succeeds completely. Words tend to flutter like sparrows in distress when he needs to say something.

"Shhh shh," comes a voice almost right on top of him, "I'm fine, Sam. A few cuts and bruises but I'm okay. I— oh God, Sammy. I killed what got to you. It's dead, it's— oh, _God_—"

There's retching sounds directly behind his head, and his stomach rolls like a washing machine that has a door with a window. There's nothing inside, so he doesn't throw up again. It's over soon enough.

"Jesus, Sam, I'm so goddamn sorry. I'm so— oh, _Sam. _I gotta, I'll be right back. I gotta get some blankets or something."

"_Crows,_" Sam tries to warn. He doesn't want them back, not ever. _Crows, _he thinks loudly in his garbled head. _Crows, Dean, brother._

Dean comes back swiftly, grabbing Sam's curled arm and tugging it away. He fights weakly, not wanting to leave his gash unprotected, he doesn't want them taking anymore, doesn't want anything else spilling out.

"Sam, we need to cover this. I have to get you to the car. I don't— I don't know what to do here, man."

He can't fight much longer, most of his strength sapped out when his blood left him, so he reluctantly relinquishes his grip and is rolled on his side. A vague and large pressure comes to settle on his chest and the ache returns twofold. Sam moans.

"Sorry, Sammy, there's nothing else..." The words taper off after a hitch and a hiccup, sounding a little like Dean's trying to keep something from coming up. He doesn't say anything else after that, and Sam's head lulls.

He's not sure how his brother does it, but he's in Dean's arms briefly, cradled heavily before being shoved gently into the back seat. The door presses against his head and his knees are pulled up. The blanket stays on, wrapped around his torso like an outgrown cocoon. He watches it bloom red.

Feeling his elder sibling get into the drivers side and slam the door carelessly, Sam shifts and tries to focus on the back of his sibling's head. Dean turns and reaches to ghost his knuckles over Sam's cheek and brush his bangs to the side and rest his fingers above the puffy eyelid until it shuts.

The last thing Sam sees is his brother's face, a runny nose and rain drops sliding off clumped eyelashes.


End file.
